some point of its soul.
In her arms lay the delicate baby. Its deep blue eyes, always looking up
at her unblinking, seemed to draw her innermost thoughts out of her. She
no longer loved her husband; she had not wanted this child to come, and
there it lay in her arms and pulled at her heart. She felt as if the
navel string that had connected its frail little body with hers had not
been broken. A wave of hot love went over her to the infant. She held it
close to her face and breast. With all her force, with all her soul she
would make up to it for having brought it into the world unloved. She
would love it all the more now it was here; carry it in her love. Its
clear, knowing eyes gave her pain and fear. Did it know all about her?
When it lay under her heart, had it been listening then? Was there a
reproach in the look? She felt the marrow melt in her bones, with fear
and pain.
Once more she was aware of the sun lying red on the rim of the hill
opposite. She suddenly held up the child in her hands.
"Look!" she said. "Look, my pretty!"
She thrust the infant forward to the crimson, throbbing sun, almost with
relief. She saw him lift his little fist. Then she put him to her bosom
again, ashamed almost of her impulse to give him back again whence he
came.
"If he lives," she thought to herself, "what will become of him--what
will he be?"
Her heart was anxious.
"I will call him Paul," she said suddenly; she knew not why.
After a while she went home. A fine shadow was flung over the deep green
meadow, darkening all.
As she expected, she found the house empty. But Morel was home by ten
o'clock, and that day, at least, ended peacefully.
Walter Morel was, at this time, exceedingly irritable. His work seemed
to exhaust him. When he came home he did not speak civilly to anybody.
If the fire were rather low he bullied about that; he grumbled about his
dinner; if the children made a chatter he shouted at them in a way that
made their mother's blood boil, and made them hate him.
On the Friday, he was not home by eleven o'clock. The baby was unwell,
and was restless, crying if he were put down. Mrs. Morel, tired to
death, and still weak, was scarcely under control.
"I wish the nuisance would come," she said wearily to herself.
The child at last sank down to sleep in her arms. She was too tired to
carry him to the cradle.
"But I'll say nothing, whatever time he comes," she said. "It only works
me up; I won't say anything. But I know if he does anything it'll make
my blood boil," she added to herself.
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